


That One Summer

by BraveKate



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Bittersweet, Explicit Language, F/F, F/M, Families of Choice, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Multi, POV Multiple, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Post-Break Up, Romance, Sex, Slice of Life, Summer, Summertime Sadness, Teenage Drama, Texting, Trans Character, Useless Lesbians, parents and kids
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-09-30 01:30:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17214473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BraveKate/pseuds/BraveKate
Summary: It's not an easy summer for anyone. Happy, maybe. Sad? Probably. Most likely, filled with revelations. But definitely not easy. Not at all.





	1. Beau

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beauregard's evening stroll down the street towards Caleb's house concludes in a surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We all have a severe case of Yasha feels, basically.

“Yes, yes! Mama is here!” All spoken in that cutesy kiddie voice. Jester and Nugget have a special, soul-binding relationship Beau has long since given up on comprehending. Loving being slobbered in other species’ saliva might or might not be required. “I love you so much! I have missed you, too!”

The fluffy traitor of a dog almost wags out of its pelt in throws of happiness. It tries to telegraph all sorts of blatant lies, like “I have not being fed _or_ petted since we saw each other last”. Jester’s wide blue eyes sparkle with mist of teary love and readiness to believe pretty much anything.

“I just fed this asshole half an hour ago,” Beau interrupts, “so don’t you dare caving in. He’ll get the shits again.” She balances on one foot while carefully lowering the toes of another on Nugget’s soft belly to tickle just below where Jester’s fingers are scratching him.

“Beau!” Jester swats at her ankle, but laughs anyway, sending a signature melodic lilt to dance down Lionetts’ depressing fucking hallway. “I won’t, I won’t. Even though technically half an hour is a long time when you are so small, technically.” She scoops Nugget in her arms and stands up, a cloud of lavender-vanilla scent following, head tilted to study Beau better. “Where are you going, Beau?”

The flip-flops are almost worn through and have lost their color years ago, acquiring a homogenous dirty blue hue, but they fit perfectly, like second skin, and Beau doesn’t even register the weight as she steps into them. “Just down the street, wanna drop my presents off at Miss Nott’s.”

“Oh?” Jester is so crispy-perfect in Beau’s doorway, a slightly psychedelic doll in pastel tie-dye sundress with glitter on her nails, lips, and eyelids. Warm evening sun lights up a crown around her voluminous curly bob. Beau’s heart flutters a little a lot bit. “What did you get?”

“You know, the usual.” Beau cringes. “Lady stuff.”

It’s not the fun kind Jester or Molly would want, but boring plain shit for a “proper young businesswoman” – thanks, mom, – that’s still too feminine for Keg’s tastes, not to mention Beau herself. Every year, same old annoying song. At least this time there’s someone to appreciate the things. She used to dump them, because local shelter, too familiar with her family, would not accept the donations.

Jester’s lower lip puffs out to convey profound sadness. “I’m sorry, that sucks.”

“Yeah, whatever.” With one final tag to adjust her sports bra, Beau is ready. Her bun is a messy knot atop her head, and there are mosquito bites and sunburn everywhere the short tights aren’t, but what’s a camp counselor to do. It’s only three houses down. She picks up the tangled snake of paper bag handles and motions Nugget and Jester out.

The later hesitates by jasmine bushes, uncertainty in every line of her body, and Beau knows what’s coming even before the words leave her friend’s mouth.

“Have Fjord texted you?”

Cuh. Ri-i-inge!

She gathers all the available fake nonchalance: “Yep. Happy Birthday and stuff.”

Jester gives a series of tiny contained nods, like it’s nothing, before adding: “Did, um… Did he-” A dimpled smile overtakes her features, the tinsel-bright artificial one Beau hates. Jester’s blue eyeliner and unicorn-and-rainbows sticker freckles flake and lift in places – it’s been a long, hot day. “Never mind! I’ll walk you.”

They stroll through the waves of cicada song in silence, only kitty heals clacking against the pavement and Beau’s flops whacking her soles for accompaniment. Nugget, the poor bustard, is panting soundlessly, too exhausted after all the sucking up.

“Okay, let me say bye,” Beau asks, plucking him out of the embrace to squeeze. He might be a traitor all right, but my, oh my, does she love him regardless. She spins a bit away from Jester and, bouncing the dog, whispers into one soft floppy ear: “Don’t be straight, Nuggie. You know what straights do? They kiss their best friends’ puppy co-parents and fuck off for the entire summer to post pictures with sexy redheads on their instagrams. So, don’t you do it! Deal?” Hot stinky breath is the only reward to this precious advice. Beau makes a disgusted face and shoves Nugget back, which extracts a coo from Jester. “Don’t forget to have plenty of fresh water out.”

“I won’t, don’t worry,” the girl assures. She faces the house they stopped by to scream at the top of her lungs: “Hello, Miss Nott! Hello, Caleb! Bye-bye now!” Then turns and, walking backwards, takes Nugget’s paw to wave at Beau: “Say, bye-bye, mama!” The puppy adds an adorable semi-howl.

“Yeah, yeah,” Beau waves exclusively so that they leave faster.

Miss Nott’s house looks much better compared to two years ago. It’s freshly painted in grey, the gutters are clean, the mail box sports a lopsided mending job down its cracked leg. An attempt at landscaping had been made. It’s not picture-perfect, the lawn being a bit overgrown, but still a long shot from the plot of tangled jungle and empty bottles kids were dared to crawl into after dark. Most flowers in the white plastic planters hanging from the porch awning are currently wilting, but that’s a glass-half-full situation.

Beau stomps up the steps like an elephant and bangs on the door as hard as she can, making the mosquito screen behind it rattle. The doorbell is not fixed yet. 

There are saggy house pants hanging from Miss Nott’s thin legs, the ones Beau remembers from _before_. Before Caleb, before transition, before AA. They are probably a comfort item, akin to Beau’s flip-flops. The rest of the woman, despite the lingering heat, is swaddled in a black cardigan. “Hey there,” she says in her weirdly calming high-pitched voice. The untidy dark head peeks out to search the street. “I thought I heard Jessie.”

Beau thumbs over her shoulder. “She had to bail to take care of Nugget. It’s just me.”

Miss Nott’s large round eyes study the intruder for a moment, but she nods and seeps back into the house, leaving the door cracked.

It’s cooler inside with windows dimmed by blinds and a fan whirring away in the corner. Caleb’s books are all over the living room coffee table and breakfast bar in the kitchen. A page of biology rustles every time artificial wind swipes past it, disturbing the lemony furniture polish smell of the downstairs. Caleb’s weird-ass not-yet-proven-otherwise “cat” gives Beau a slow blink from atop the fireplace mantel when she gingerly deposits her bags on the couch.

“They are up in the room, studying,” Miss Nott says from inside the fridge. If “they” include Molly, – and yeah, there his purple platform sneakers are under the coat rack – then aforementioned studying is just as mythical as the cat. 

“It’s okay, I’m actually here to see you.”

Surfacing with a can of Beau’s second favorite soda, Miss Nott thrusts it at her. “Me?”

“Yeah. Got a bunch of crap I don’t want for my birthday, figured you might like it.”

A nervous chuckle. “I _do_ like crap.”

The woman moves with frenetic energy, yet in a strangely economical way. She creeps across the open space towards the bags as if expecting them to blow up, and gives Beau a dubious glance while doing so. Beau raises her eyebrows, cracking the cold can without comment to let it fizz. Gift thoroughly inspected, the woman reaches out and pushes one bag open. Cerulean tail of a shiny silk scarf is exposed; Miss Nott runs her fingers over it reverently, a bare, starved look of someone used to denying themselves fixed on her face.

“I want to be the type of woman who wears pretty scarves,” she says, barely audible.

“That’s fortunate, ‘cause I don’t.” Beau estimates that, height aside, they are similarly sized, even though Caleb’s mom probably falls towards the “scrawny” rather than “slender” side of the spectrum. “Fair warning though, the clothes will probably need hemming. But I thought they’d suit you for, like, PT meetings and stuff.” The soda is bright on her tongue, citrusy.

“They would.” Miss Nott lets the bag fold in again and turns. “I can’t accept this, Beauregard.”

A shrug. “Okay… I’ll just dump them like the previous three batches, since the shelter won’t take them, and you don’t ne-”

“You’ll do no such thing.” There’s more rustling inspection while Beau’s rapidly emptying can starts to sweat. A jewelry box is thrown at her, midnight-blue faux leather. “Alright. I will take the clothes. But this goes back. I can’t have it in the house for personal reasons.”

Nestled inside is an orchid pin. Tiny imitation diamonds cover the whole surface like a horrible skin disease. “Not a flower fan? I hear you-”

“It’s a shiny thing.” Miss Nott waves the conversation away. “Forget it-”

Then, suddenly, without any humane warnings, with no preparation _at all_ , motherfucking Yasha appears, and Beau feels herself freeze from fingertips down to the depths of abyss others call soul.

Since Beau quit the team in favor of martial arts after freshman year, they would see each other mostly during GSA meetings and group hangs. But Yasha stopped attending both after the last Christmas break disaster, and Beau’s immunity apparently dwindled somewhat. So it’s not some jokey-joke “pretty girl alert” Jester-induced heart flutters, it’s full on “take me now” hives attack that incapacitates her. Yasha’s shoulders stretch the grey-and-black baseball shirt as dangerously as ever. Her thighs look magnificent in the black jeans as she descends the stairs with no sound but plenty grace, missing Beau completely, and dives into the kitchen.

Of course she’s here. Molly’s presence should have been all the warning needed. BFFs even through better times, they’ve became joined at the hip lately.

“-whales copulating,” Miss Nott deadpans, gathering back into focus from a blurry blob. She’s looking up at Beau with well-pronounced skepticism.

“Huh? I was totally listening.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.” The woman sighs, and her expression is warmed subtly with crow’s feet and laugh lines deepening. “Thank you very much, Beauregard, it was thoughtful of you to bring over these nice things. You and Jessie are very kind to me. I appreciate that.”

“Yeah, no problem.” In the background, Yasha ducks out of the kitchen and slinks through the main door with something in her hands. Beau squeezes her empty soda can until it crumples. “I’ll just go. Now. I’ll just be going now.”

Another sigh. The can is yanked away. “Try not to act dumb, Beau.”

Beau croaks a “ha!”, gives presumably-cat the stink eye, and, passing the stairs, yells: “Stop making out, losers!”

The creaky, dry wood of the porch drowns in orange glow. Down one end, Yasha is watering the dying plants out of a thermal mug. Black-to-white ombré hair spills from one shoulder when she leans over the railing to gently lift fuzzy violet leaves from harm’s way. Beau suddenly remembers with vivid clarity how Yasha always smells clean, like ozone and unisex glacier-something cologne. Her cheeks feel tight with all the blood rushing towards them. Thank heavens for tan! Her eyes fall down, landing on the chipped silver polish clinging to her toenails – trophy from that time she fell asleep first during cross-cabin Sunday Sleepover almost a month ago. Sweat is pooling where her arms rub against her sides, left naked by the top’s side cutouts.

Shit. She’s a disaster.

“What do you have there?”

The words don’t even register as addressed to her, at first. They are soft, perfect for lingering in the balmy air. Yasha’s not watching Beau, either, still preoccupied with the plants.

“Pff! Just some stupid flower pin Miss Nott didn’t like. Guess I’m throwing that out!” And, like some weirdo, Beau proceeds to first burp thunderously and then laugh an assholish laugh she copied from Fjord. Je-e-ezus.

In a blink of an eye, Yasha is finished with the pot she’s been working on and, mug abandoned, is teleported over to loom – a predator on the prowl. Her scent is the exact same one haphazard locker room memories cradle. Beau is caught and frozen in place, helpless to stop it. Can Yasha smell the sweat and sun on her skin, too, she wonders, while social cues demand she opens the jewelry box to demonstrate its contents.

“An orchid,” Yasha states. She bestows her unfair heterochromatic situation on Beau from up close, causing lightheadedness.

“Yeah… um.” Beau has to swallow to stay upright. “You had enough of all the making out up there? Had to take a break?”

“M-m-m.” It’s a neutral non-answer. Yasha always seems so calm. She licks her lips; metallic piercing ball underneath the lower one catches a sharp pinprick of reflected sunlight. “Zuella likes flowers,” she declares abruptly.

And how’s a girl to react to that?!

Cold sweat rolls down Beau’s spine. “Sorry your girlfriend’s freaky homophonic parents found out about you two and moved her across the country” seems tacky. Beau might have punched the speaker if she ever had to hear something of the sort in a similar situation.

Instead, she flails, practically lounges the box at Yasha’s chest, and squeaks: “Well, you can have it, then!” Somehow, she’s finishing the sentence from halfway to the road.

“Thank you,” Yasha says, absolutely unreadable and beautiful to a harmful degree. Beau hopes she is not bleeding inside in that non-physical, acidic way that eats at a person’s days one by one until there’s only darkness left. She wishes she could tell.

Caleb’s house is gone from view by the time her heart rate finally returns to normal. Purples creep into surrounding dusky light and, as air acquires a chill, the asphalt begins to puff out heat accumulated during the day. It raises past Beau’s knees. 

There’s a text alert whistle, and she excavates the phone out of the sole tight pocket on her shorts. It’s Molly.

_You know, I just discovered I can type one-handed, with one eye closed!_

Ew.

_ew_

Right under, a Fjord convo hovers, concluded at 2 a.m. on the night of her birthday with a string of incoherent emojis. His goofy smiling face is such a contrast to Jester’s fake grimace, it makes annoyance stir under Beau’s solar plexus. She opens the thread up, types out:

_bro, you’re such a little bitch, honestly_

and hits “Send”.


	2. Keg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keg's thirsty in more ways than one. Unrelated, people are weird at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the great feedback, you guys!  
> This is now a continuous story with POV changing in each chapter.

A sunny rectangle, mottled by soft leafy shadows, rests on the ceiling above the bed. The light is swaying gently each time wind caresses the curtains. Little shadow-leaves dance, and their following rustle is soothing.

“I have a vague feeling that, maybe, we shouldn’t be doing this,” Keg says, a bit hoarse.

When Beau’s head, topknot now slanted and falling apart, pops up over Keg’s thighs, her face is still sleek-wet from nose down. A rebellious strand of dark hair is stuck to her jaw because of it. Her tone and eyebrows are outright whiney. “But we were just getting good at it!”

“It feels like such a cliché, though. The only two gay singles of the group getting it on solely because they are gay and single.”

Beau makes a disgusted expression: “Excuse you, literally every straight I know is doing the exact same thing! Copulating with the first willing partner!”

“Know a lot of straights, do you?”

Beau’s laugh is throaty when she drags herself up with her elbows to rest on the pillow next to Keg’s. Their sweaty naked shoulders touch and immediately get stuck together: beautiful brown next to constellations of pale freckles. “Fjord! My parents! Jester?.. Maybe?..”

“Ew, I don’t want to think about any parents when my pants are off!” Keg jerks a little, making her bedmate rock atop the mattress. “Jester, however-”

“Again: probably straight!”

“No, I mean, I need her sketches for the summer history project we’re doing.”

A black-and-white round clock is ticking seconds away up on the wall, and Beau consults it before saying: “Well, she’ll be bringing Nugget over in twenty minutes, so I can text her to grab the sketchbook? My folks are gonna be home soon-ish, anyway.”

They wrestle a bit over which identical white t-shirt belongs to whom. It takes the entire length of Beau’s shower for Keg to locate her glasses (inside her crumpled pants, on the floor). Walking downstairs, she succumbs to the usual anxious uncertainty about the proper way of bidding one’s fuck buddy adieu. Luckily, Beau decides for them both.

Her mouth had been rubbed a rich pink, and the color lingers, adding an appealing plumpness to already full lips. Black flooding blue irises, Beau gathers Keg close and kisses her in the casual, assured manner that would make anyone’s knees weak. It’s the exact same type of kiss they had shared behind the arcade last spring, the one that lead them here in the first place. Their teeth clack; Keg’s glasses skew uncomfortably, but who cares. She’s the one reaching for it in the end, somehow already on her tiptoes and stretching, her arms encircling another’s gorgeous neck and whole body pressed flush against Beau’s, who smells like coffee shower gel. Hot palms sear brands through the cotton over Keg’s ribcage.

“…Listen,” Beau exhales softly into the mixed air between their faces once they separate. “If you really don’t want to, you know… we won’t, anymore. I won’t turn into a douchey ex or something, I promise. I’ll be your wingman, instead! There will be pizza and speedrunning, and zero facesitting all around.” The tone is more sincere than the speaker realizes, Keg’s pretty sure, and it makes her smile.

Beau is awesome.

“I, uh…” It leaves Keg in a whisper – armor for secrets. “I wanna have a relationship with someone I like as a person, you know?”

Beau mimics getting shot in the chest: “Oof, girl! That’s harsh.”

Keg yanks her down. “Come on! You know what I mean! Like, like- Like Yasha and Zee.”

“Yeah.” A careful nod. They both look down in silence, mourning something that never belonged to them, but hurt like it did – a too-personal tragedy. Beau, chin bumping Keg’s forehead with every word, ends the somber moment: “Listen. If anyone ever asks me? You’re single and amazing, and I’m reporting back with details immediately.”

Laughter bubbles up; Keg pushes Beau away, caressing her bicep in the process and smiling wide. “Thanks! You’re the best.”

The plan is to ambush Jester halfway by cutting a corner through Keg’s lifelong enemy, Lionetts’ prickly side bushes, so that no neighbor can see. It progresses well, until suddenly an unidentified mass blocks the trail. One flora-encapsulated collision later, Keg’s on her back half-outside the aforementioned shrubbery. Her ankle sports yet another thin bleeding scratch that looks like a sharpie stroke. The smell of sunbathed grass is wafting all around her. Also all around her is an unhealthily generous heap of Fjord, who weighs a ton. A ladybug is crawling very purposefully up his shoulder blade.

“Dude,” the guy says. “What are you even doing here, this is Beau’s house!”

“No way, really?” Keg grunts, trying to push the offender off. “Who would’ve thunk. What are _you_ doing here?”

He gets with the program and rolls off to stand back at his full (unnecessary) height. The resulting shadow is enough to shield Keg from midday sun. “I’m her best friend!”

“No, I mean, why are you creeping through secret passages like a knockoff ninja?” She waves at his uncustomary tan. “And aren’t you supposed to be singing kumbaya at Camp Crystal Lake or something?”

If a person could puff up in cornered anger, like a cat… “I have my reasons! And it’s none of your business!”

“Ch-yeah! Same. Beau has other friends.”

And Fjord, the suave bastard, is not a known teacher’s pet for nothing. He visibly relaxes; sighs, head shaking. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Kegster. I should look where I’m walking. I was startled, that’s all. There’s usually no one here; no one knows about the passage.” A callused hand is outstretched to her, which she accepts to be cooperatively tagged to her feet. Pinpricks dance across her skin, and a quick glance reveals him staring above her collar. Hot wet pain with a hint of teeth flashes in Keg’s memory; a red flower. Fuck. She barely manages to keep one hand from flying up and slapping over the spot mosquito-kill style.

“Um…”

“Keg, are you there, Keg? Answer me! I heard screaming; is the hedge eating you alive?” Jester’s pitch dives towards the end and gives the question a theatrical spooky flare.

It takes a second for her to appear atop the stone fence, and in that window Fjord’s tan is legitimately _gone_. Jester’s blindingly beautiful, like a sun rising over horizon, shrouded in embroidered chiffon (and wearing a crown of pup). The whole look is constructed with scary precision from head to, no doubt, currently invisible toe. She clutches an A4 mixed media album that has been glitterized to spell “SWERFs can suck it for free”. The “u” in “suck” is, naturally, a heart.

“Oh!” She chirps after noticing the garden creepers. “Hello, Keg and Fjord!”

“Jester,” the guy exhales, all winded, rubbing his nape in an attempt to embody a thesaurus entry for “cliché”. He seems to be expecting… something. A fainting girl in his arms? A headshot? 

What he gets instead is a grin and a: “Are you going to visit Beau now?” A pause for a jerky nod. “Will you give Nugget a ride?”

“Sure?”

Jester untangles the dog from her hair and outstretches in, for whatever reason, Keg’s way. Keg is automatically over to take and pass the little passenger along. He’s warm and wiggly, round belly velvet to the touch, and doesn’t seem to mind company.

“I, uh? I guess, I’ll be going then?” Fjord asks. His eyebrows are crawling upwards with each word.

Finally making it outside is a blessing, even though any conspiracy’s probably been blown. Upon closer inspection, there’s a white slip dress underneath Jester’s semi-translucent top layer of embroidered vines and roses. With the combat boots? Very nineties. Her knuckles are white from the grip she has on the sketchbook: wire spiral of its spine is dented under the squeezing fingers. She’s blankly staring across the road, where nothing is happening at all. That patent blinding grin is nowhere in sight.

“Jester?” Keg calls, suddenly wary. “You okay?”

She jerks at the sound, blinks rapidly. “Yeah… What were you screaming about? Earlier?”

“Ah, it’s nothing,” Keg swats the question away in annoyance before adding: “That guy is just so gosh darn eloquent, bless his heart.” The accent is, admittedly, a little mocking.

Jester’s smile returns just as Keg’s hands are filled with cardboard and paper. “That’s a very keen observation, Keg. Here, take the sketches. I hope they’ll do! I’m going to uncle Deuce’s for some tea now, bye!”

A-a-and she’s gone.

Perplexed, Keg flips through the book: colorful markers and gel pens make for amazing illustrations to compliment the text she’s prepared. The artist’s playful style doesn’t overtake the context. The pages are mesmerizing and are a thorough entertainment, until the corner store greets her with motley product posters of debatable allure. But even the least amount of effort is enough to seduce her in this kind of heat.

Canned soda it is. (It tastes better.) 

Sticky spirals of fly tape dangle from ceiling like morbid decorations. Fridges and lights hum. It’s a small space and, thankfully, mostly empty aside from a bored clerk and an office worker perusing the snack rack with idle interest. Keg moves past the petite woman just to stop short when various facial recognition glands in her brain start juicing.

“Didn’t notice you there,” she says, “with the real people clothing and all.”

“Yes, well.” Nott quickly grabs a pack of jerky and moves to leave.

“Is it your shoplifting disguise or something?”

Nott doesn’t react by either looking sad or angry, just beelines to the pitiful selection of fresh produce on a fingerprinted mirror shelf against the wall. Keg’s stomach floods with unpleasant coolness as her teeth clench. She’s being an asshole again.

Her whole life, Keg has had a first row ticket to a joyful show that is alcoholism, and looking at Nott always invokes certain memories. Sleepless nights filled to bursting with cacophony of deafening screams and banging, constant humming of anxiety. Hunger. Pain. Even if Nott’s actually a quiet drunk, Keg’s first experience of her is still opening up for a part-time job, finding a presumably dead body behind the dumpsters, freaking out, and then discovering the body was just out cold in a pool of piss and cheap whiskey. That’s where, prior to Caleb, Nott could mostly be found: sleeping in alleys or under the plastic slide on the park playground.

Maybe Keg’s projecting, but the bitterness is still overwhelming.

She hears it before she sees him. A subtle metallic click of lighter lid snapping shut; then, hiding in the aisle she’s diving into – Caleb. Lax, he stands between juice and non-dairy milks, steadily not looking up from ceramic floor tiles. He’s taller, but where Keg’s built, he’s lanky. Even with shoulder width diminished further by hunched posture, there’s something intimidating in the way he’s so tangibly on edge all the damn time. The perpetual battered jacket of brown leather that dwarfs him, the slightly tangled and clearly unfresh hair – everything gives off this impression of extremely limited fucks supply. He telegraphs danger in the way a neglected bridge would: if it snaps, you’re going along for the ride.

“You should really apologize to my mom,” Caleb says quietly, words simultaneously harsher and smoother than local drawl. Pale eyelashes tremble, shielding his downward-bound restless gaze. A dull silver sparkle blinks between nailbitten fingers when he pockets his lighter. The gesture is not menacing, per se… but unsettling. Definitely unsettling.

The shame that flushes alive between Keg’s throat and stomach is worse. Caleb may be a walking open wound, but he’s much less so compared to a year ago, – more seeping and not gushing, – and that’s absolutely Nott’s work.

Also, the truth is, Keg’s grateful to Nott and her weird smelly son. They make her feel like she _does_ belong in this part of town, on this street. She can walk around without imagining a chain of tar-dirty footprints trailing behind. Because… well. Beau’s parents keep a four-car garage and a pool with a guest house beside it. Jester always has private tutors and most fashionable outfits and latest gadgets. And sure, they’re nice to her, but. She’s seen Jester drop her phone and laugh at the shuttered screen. She’s seen Beau throw out half-finished plates of food. Like it doesn’t matter. Like it’s nothing. They can’t help the way they were brought up, of course, and yet-

Long story short, it’s nice to have Nott and Caleb nearby as a reality checkpoint. It’s even nicer not being a dick.

Keg hangs her head and, swallowing sticky saliva down her parched throat, flees empty-handed.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! <3


End file.
